FOR some reason a partly finished pavement (that leads nowhere) has materialised outside the old Gramercy School entrance.

Puzzled, I'd telephoned the highways department and Mike, a polite young man, explained it was a new bus-stop for Churston's residents.

He stated the site isn't completed because the concrete requires a few weeks to harden off before the top-coat is applied.

After that a bus shelter will be put into place. He also said a small island will be placed in the middle of the road to ensure safe crossing for pedestrians.

When I remarked the many thousands spent on that corner would have been better spent repairing Brixham's dangerous pot-holes... well, he didn't exactly disagree.

My second question was slightly outside Mike's remit, but he answered all the same.

Coming from The Willows in Torquay last week we noticed two signs pointing to 'Lowes Bridge'.

Now, for as long as I can remember, it was always Lawes Bridge and only recently we received correspondence from Torbay Hospital giving their address as Lawes Bridge.

The council man chuckled, saying that over the years the name had probably become 'bastardized' by locals, but the correct name, according to ancient maps, was indeed Lowes Bridge. Oh dear!

Goodness knows what the proper name for Cowtown's Horsepool Street is?

Listening to a family member moan about 'emotional' daughters, I silently welcomed the fact we'd only had a son.

Responsibilities associated with growing daughters must create umpteen sleepless nights and while fathers expect sons to experience 'wild' periods before settling down, the fears about young daughters being exploited by oversexed young tearaways hardly bears thinking about.

Not that we've completely escaped parental responsibility.

For the past week or so, Shannon has appeared reluctant to do her normal pre-breakfast dash into the back garden.

On opening the kitchen door we discovered a big tabby from up the road, just quietly sitting on the wall waiting for her ladyship to show.

We think he's called Woodman and looks to be a similar breed (Norwegian Forest) as our little black beauty.

Shannon wasn't overly upset, just a bit wary and if he got too close she'd give him a 'no-claws-out' swipe to keep his distance.

Being 'soft', we offered the visitor a couple of treats until Shannon got really jealous and told us off in no uncertain terms with a 'Hey! You've got me to pamper, OK?' kind of look.

On the subject of youngsters' behaviour, the other day the retired pilot seemed headed for a major collision.

Ahead of me, coming down the hill, three wild looking youths, about 17, were taking up the whole pavement.

They gave the impression they certainly wouldn't steer to port to allow the ol' sailor room.

My thoughts began... 'Oh dear, trouble ahead!'

The biggest lad suddenly stopped and looked behind him at another youngster slowly sauntering down the hill.

I'd passed that lad a few mornings and he never smiled, made eye contact or ever acknowledged my cheery, 'morning!' 'Ah, more trouble looming!'

'Big fella' mumbled something and they all halted. When 'quiet boy' got within a few feet, opening up their arms the four engaged in an enormous group hug.

Laughing, they drifted on down the hill... politely leaving a passage for the old mariner to navigate in safety.

Smiling all the way home my redeeming thoughts began, 'judge-book-cover'.

Another strange thing happened last week.

I was asked to review not one, but two books.

The first was a long index of Brixham's fishing vessels built, registered or owned in the port from 1784 until 1927.

Author Mike Miller has compiled this historic maritime record for Brixham's Heritage Museum.

Starting with Britannia, a 36ft craft, it gives her build date, owners and when lost.

Moving on through the years to the Upham's built ketch, Vigilance, launched in 1926 and now owned by Billy Wakeham & Co.

Just turning the pages of this excellent collection of local vessels draws the fading memory back to several famous names: Ibex, Guess On, Leader, Forget-me-not, Unity and many, many more.

Anyone with a splash of saltwater in their blood will discover within the pages little-known facts relating to this ancient harbour's proud past.

My deepest thanks, Mr Miller, for the chance to scan back over the years into the history of the 'scattered offspring' of the mother port.

If you're interested the book is available at the Brixham Heritage Museum or by contacting Mr Miller on 855320. Cheers!

Book number two is by Philip Algar, entitled, Goodbye Old Chap.

It tells the story of his father, a master mariner who was taken prisoner by the Germans in the Second World War.

Separated from country and family for nearly four years, the book covers the humiliations of captivity and how some seafarers suffered the disgrace of being treated like imprisoned slaves.

There are a few odd moments of quiet compassion; respect, even, from some of the German guards, but not many.

The book also recalls the wartime bombing of Torquay and local air raids when enemy planes skimmed across the Bay determined to sink the coal-hulk London City moored behind the Brixham breakwater.

I remember as a young kid watching in frightened amazement as Jerry planes flew low, intent on destroying fuel tanks in Berry Head.

Watching the bombs fall, we cheered loudly when they dropped in the outer harbour missing the moored coal-hulk completely.

Sadly, the underwater explosions blasted open the ship's ancient rivets and hours later the old hulk quietly settled on to the seabed.

There was one strange coincidence in Philip Algar's tale about his seafaring dad.

After the war, resuming a career with Shell Tankers, he became senior master and in the early 1950s joined Shell's 'Verena' (in those days a new breed of 'super tanker').

Captain Algar joined the ship in November, just after a young Cowtown junior ordinary seaman had paid-off from her in October.

Goodbye Old Chap by Philip Algar is on sale at Torbay Bookshop, Paignton.